Assassins - Ian Watson & Andy West (5 page)

Tehran, Iran:
June 1987

Jafar had hurried to the observation booth as soon as
he was told that at last the prisoner was showing the first signs
of plague.

Subject Number Two, was also a subject of
that impostor who called himself the Aga Khan and who weighed
himself in diamonds, so-called Commander-in-Chief of the so-called
Nizari Ismailis, whose great great grandfather long ago hijacked a
lineage and a true faith that had persisted in secret for
centuries. How appropriate that the first experimental prisoner to
show the desired signs should be one of those false Nizaris.

Doctor… think of him not by his name, but as
the Hakim of our time… was gazing through the toughened glass at
his subject within the padded cell, a naked flabby brown man who
suddenly spewed out water which he had only just gorged himself on,
as though this might empty himself of what
plagued
him. Was
that what his body was trying vainly to do?

The prisoner clutched his head. His neck
looked swollen. Moments later, blood began trickling from his nose.
His chest flushed with a rash like a blushing girl.

“Very fast onset,” commented The Doctor
approvingly, scribbling in his notebook. “Extremely
satisfactory.”

The prisoner staggered. His eyes glared madly
at his observers. His bloodied lips mouthed something theatrically;
the glass was soundproof but he’d probably screamed the words out.
Possibly ‘shoot me’.

“In olden times,” said The Doctor levelly,
“people drowned themselves or jumped off cliffs… the pain and
thirst was so great. Still very early days, we have years ahead of
us, but I think this is indeed the same disease.”

I’ll be needing a new identity before long,
reflected Jafar, a new name.

Boston,
Massachusetts: April

Abigail felt quite ridiculous weaving through
downtown Boston, lurking in bookshop aisles with views of the
street, leaving by alternative exits if possible, plunging into
crowds then doubling back and slipping suddenly down side-streets.
No man in a grey scarf appeared to be tailing her, though that
didn’t mean that someone else wasn’t. Apart from taking great
exception to Jack Turner knowing her business, she didn’t want
Walid to suffer similar attention.

She took the subway to Ruggles, then marched
briskly into the grounds of North-Eastern University. Entering the
foyer of the Behrakis Health Sciences Center, she checked from
behind the glare of sunshine on blue glass. All seemed okay, just a
few students wandering around. Shabby garb with pseudo-military
pockets and zips plus arty beads, or winter coats thrown over
bright tee-shirts and jogging bottoms or jeans.

A shame Walid wasn’t closer to hand; more of
a shame that she’d felt forced to take a long detour into downtown
for no other reason than ICEman Jack
might
be watching her!
Quelling a spasm of anger, she found a rear exit and wended her way
to the intersection of Malcolm X Boulevard and Tremont Street.

The golden dome of the Roxbury mosque was a
mirror of the bright sun, nestling on ember-red columns and arches
and curtains of brick, although for Abigail its tall minaret
spoiled an otherwise exotic effect , looking as it did like a
nineteenth century factory chimney. The brickwork architecture had
apparently been chosen to fit in with Bostonian style.

“I’m here to see Walid al-Areqi,” she told an
attendant at the main entrance. “He’s expecting me.” The man nodded
and she stepped inside, then he moved noiselessly away to a
shadowed interior.

Abigail browsed the notice-board, spotting
Walid’s name on several committees and support-groups. If ever
there was anyone on a mission to help the whole of humanity, it was
Walid. And after fifteen years of dedicated effort towards the
Roxbury mosque project, he certainly deserved his position
here.

“Abigail… Abigail, it’s good to see you
again. Wonderful!”

They hugged warmly, by no means a
conventional way for an Islamic man to greet a woman not of his
family.

Walid’s deep, mellow tones always seemed in
contrast with his slight build and thin, restless features, just as
his wrinkled and nut-brown skin contrasted with the silky white of
his hair and beard. During their previous meetings, Abigail had
occasionally found herself asking him a question just so that she
could be enfolded in the downy duvet of his answering voice.

“It’s good to see you,” she responded with
feeling. “Are you busy?”

Walid shrugged and smiled. “This place
doesn’t run itself. But I always have a little time for a beautiful
French lady.”

“French-Canadian,” corrected Abigail,
grinning and colouring at the same time. Walid was a star.

“I suppose you need a little help with your
research?” Every line of his face showed an intense eagerness to
put his substantial knowledge to service.

“I’m afraid so,” Abigail admitted.

“Come in, come in.”

It wasn’t a time of prayer, so they passed
through the echoing main hall and under the dome, with its curved
web of struts trapping a mysterious globe of gloom, then to a small
side-room. The mosque could hold 400 at prayer, with a separate
room for 200 women.

“It’s about the fragment,” Abigail said once
they were seated. “I think it may be Ismaili, or at least
influenced by the Ismailis. But I’m not too familiar with Ismailism
and I need to know more, urgently. What it’s really about, why
death overflows, the eagle reference?”

“Ah, the famous fragment.” He frowned.
“Ismaili, eh? That puts a different light on things.” A mischievous
smile leaked out of him. “When is something
not
urgent for
you?”

“Oh, but…”

Walid held up his hand to halt her. “Now, I’m
no expert on Ismaili poetry…”

“But?”

Abigail knew his pause was for dramatic
effect. Walid
always
said he wasn’t an expert, yet she had
never yet seen him stumped.

“But I do know their works are usually
devotional in nature. Take Ibn Hani for instance.” And he quoted in
English a couple of verses about salvation, burdens removed,
tomorrow bringing forth the day of Resurrection.

“Not an expert, huh? But you can quote the
stuff! Presumably that’s Ibn Hani al-Andalusi?”

“Yes. He had to flee anti-Ismaili persecution
in Andalusia and was mysteriously murdered, around 970 AD I
believe. A great loss.”

She sensed a touch of bitterness in Walid’s
voice, as though the poet had died just last month and not a
thousand years ago.

“Because of the Spanish connection, I came
across Ibn Hani myself,” said Abigail. “Given that Safiyya lived in
Granada and it now appears had Ismaili sympathies herself, she
probably knew his works backwards. Yet she doesn’t seem to write in
the same style.” She passed Walid a copy of her translation from
the Provençal, to jog his memory. He searched in vain for his
glasses.

“Your poetisa would have cloaked her
sympathies, in order to avoid Ibn Hani’s fate! Four centuries
separate him and her, but righteous anger at fringe beliefs hadn’t
diminished. Andalusia was a stronghold of orthodoxy until the
end.”

“Hmmm… I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Perhaps her poem is deliberately obscure for
that very reason.”

Glasses discovered, under a mass of draft
leaflets, Walid perused the fragment. Abigail had to consciously
stop holding her breath. She desperately needed some clues to fend
off the ridiculous attention of Jack Turner.

The wrinkles around Walid’s eyes tightened in
concern or distaste, or maybe like her he was just puzzled.

“I’m afraid I didn’t pay enough attention
before,” he muttered. “Even so I should have realised… Senility
setting in, I expect.”

“Realised what?” ventured Abigail.

“About the Ismaili connection.” He took his
glasses off and waved them in vague circles. “The Ismailis were
rather militantly organised you know, in medieval times.”

The unsavoury association she hadn’t been
able to recall burst forth like vinegar of the mind. Of course!
Extremists at the mountain fortress of Alamut, just south of the
Caspian sea, had once led the Ismaili community. An embarrassing
period in the history of the sect.

“The Assassins of Alamut,” she gasped.

“Quite. Though I think Alamut had been in
ruins for quite a while when your poetisa was writing…
mid-fourteenth you said?”

Abigail nodded.

“Nevertheless, that’s where you’ll find your
eagle connection. The place was even called the Eagle’s Nest, ages
before a certain deplorable German Führer used that same name for
his mountain retreat.”

She made a mental note to check these things
out later; she didn’t want to stop Walid in mid-flow.

“Maybe the verses praise a figure or a period
historical to Safiyya. But the one who
watches down from
high
, who has
the vision to judge
, is an Imam of course.
It’s a reference to his status of divine appointment. Nizari
Quhistani employs the phrase,
the one above them all
, but
Nasir-i-Khusraw is much more explicit in the last verse of his
work,
The Master and the Disciple
. Ahem:
The master said,
He is the Lord of the time, chosen by God from men
and
jinns
. Unfortunately, none of this poetry works well in
English. Come to think of it, I guess Safiyya’s style
is
reminiscent of Khusraw. He’s another leading light in Ismaili
poetry. Eleventh century. You don’t have the fragment in Arabic, do
you?” Walid peered hopefully over his lenses.

“Only in Provençal, so we can’t be sure the
translation from Arabic is accurate. I’d actually worked out the
Imam bit, but the part about death overflowing is a real
mystery.”

“Indeed.
Our term is ended
could be a
reference to the end of everything, the Resurrection, when revived
bodies of the dead come up from the earth to be reunited with their
souls. That isn’t related to the Christian Resurrection of Jesus.
No, it’s when the great Judgement takes place.”

“Hmm… I translated
de riba sort
as
overflows
, but literally it’s
from the bank comes
out
, as in a river overflowing its banks. Maybe it should’ve
been
from the earth comes out
? And
mort
could be
dead
, not
death
. It’s a pity we haven’t got the words
just before
mort
to set the context.”

Walid frowned. “It doesn’t feel right. I
think you’re bending the words to fit my suggestion.
Swells
is peculiar, despite the dead supposedly regaining their flesh.
I’ve never come across such phrasing as this before.” He fell
silent, drumming his fingers on the desk. For once maybe he
was
stumped. Then he gave a sigh of exasperation.

“If only we had a little more material! The
Ismailis believe in religious cycles, so maybe
our term
means one of those cycles. In fact resurrection,
qiyama
, can
also have a special meaning for them, as in the start of a new
cycle, like the one announced by Hasan II at Alamut where Shari’ah
law was abandoned. Or it could be a personal spiritual renewal. And
yet
death
is rarely mentioned directly, though there’s a
reference in that same poem about the master and disciple by
Khusraw.
Since he made me drink from the water of life, death
has become quite insignificant to me.
”

“What’s ‘the water of life’?”

“It’s a metaphor. It features in Sufi poetry
too, and usually refers to the wellspring of esoteric knowledge –
esoteric in the sense of for initiates only. Or it could refer to
an Imam who holds the knowledge, or to Ali himself, the Prophet’s
son-in-law and the spiritual leader of all Shi’a sects. Al-Khidr is
often a kind of intermediary associated with such quotes.”

“The green one?” ventured Abigail
hesitantly.

“In literal translation, yes. He’s the
personification of esoteric inspiration, probably adapted from a
pre-Islamic figure.”

“Well it’s certainly powerful water, if it
makes death insignificant.”

“Esoteric knowledge is a precious treasure,
life itself to the Ismailis of old. Khusraw wrote that
the
esoteric is like pearls for people who are wise
. Whereas
ordinary wisdom is just brackish water.”

It seemed as if they’d reached a dead end, or
at least were wandering off the point, but Abigail was too polite
to interrupt Walid.

“Some interpret the water of life theme more
literally. The Baha’is say something like… the water of life flows
from the pen of the Exalted, and the water of death flows from the
pen of Satan, one drop of which is poison. Oh people, do not
mistake the waters of life and death.”

“Who on Earth are the
Baha’is
?”

“A splinter group of a splinter group of
Twelver Shi’ites, formed only about 150 years ago. I came across a
still more literal interpretation quite recently. Coincidentally it
may be a fantasy from the last mad days of Alamut, but…”

Walid stopped abruptly. Abigail hoped her
impatience wasn’t showing.

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling. A habit of
age.”

She smiled warmly. “There’s always something
to learn from your ramblings. I ought to record them!”

“If only we knew what was written immediately
before the word
death
.”

He suddenly frowned, then looked really quite
worried. Maybe he wasn’t used to scholarly defeat.

“Time for tea?” suggested Abigail.

“Oh yes. The English way, with cake, as you
like it.”

They rose. Walid rubbed his hands on his long
robes, as though wiping off something unclean. Maybe he was phobic
about cleanliness, something she hadn’t noticed before.

“I’ll work on this, Abigail. There’s a
visitor with us here at the moment who may be able to help, a
professor. He’s giving some lectures over at Harvard too. I’ll try
to introduce you.”